No Competition
by Sapphyre Snow
Summary: I have a feeling that something big is happening. Something is brewing and it’s going to take everything I’ve got just to get out alive. The battle lines have been drawn. This is war." --Co-written with Pointy Objects!
1. Chapter 1

No Competition

By Arnold's Love & Pointy Objects

* * *

Chapter One Written by: Pointy Objects

Editorial Revisions by: Arnold's Love

* * *

Chapter One: Le Commencement de Guerre

"…and last, but certainly not least, I'd like to thank _you_, the heart and soul of Hillwood's French Ambassador's Honor Society, for voting me into this noble role. I will do all that I can to uphold the traditions that have made this one of the most prestigious organizations that our grand school has come to support.

"I cannot, however, forget to thank my _vice _president, Arnold. Working in tandem, I know that we can achieve success and help this lofty establishment grow to new and exciting heights. With me as your president, and Arnold following quietly behind me, there is nothing we can't accomplish. And, as they say, behind every great woman, is a less great, but still moderately acceptable, man. Thank you."

Yes, that was a low blow. And yes, I'm going to hear about it later. But, come on; he dared to run a race against, me, Helga Pataki. Did he think that he wouldn't have to hear about his crushing defeat later, from yours truly.

The French Society breaks, and everyone makes a mad dash to the back of the auditorium for stale cookies and flat punch. Unfortunately for them, I have other things to do. I shoulder the weight of my heavy backpack and exit the auditorium, to the tune of a few people congratulating me on my new position as president and my speech. How did that old saying go? "It's hard to be humble when you look this good…" How true.

"I'm sure you're just loving all this new attention," someone says, from behind me, as I exit the auditorium and enter the spacious lobby of the school. I turn slowly, already wearing a devious smile. He shouldn't be surprised.

"I don't do it for the attention, Arnold. I do it because, I care," I tell him, empathetically placing my hand over my heart. Whatever. Yeah, I care alright…I care about the attention.

"Yeah, right. You care about the attention," he remarks, stepping towards me. I am never disappointed. Even after all these years, this boy can still read me like a book. "A riveting speech, Ms. President."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Vice President. Hmm, 'vice'?" I say out loud, putting a hand to my chin. "An adjective, from the Latin 'vicis', or interchange, meaning to be next in line in importance to. Or maybe, vice in regards to the Latin term 'vitium', which is a habit regarded as a weakness or flaw in someone's character. Or maybe-"

"I'm surprised that you didn't add that to your speech," Arnold says, huffing as if he were angry. There's a spiciness in his voice these days that makes our playful competition that much more fun. When I initially decided to become his opponent in…well, everything, I didn't see him as much of a formidable opponent. Boy, did he prove me wrong.

Arnold's smart. Everyone knows that. He excels at nearly everything he tries because he knows that he's already good at it. Academically, he's got it made. I don't know what exactly is in that huge, football head of his, but I'm guessing that's it a mighty big brain. He aced Mrs. Bastly's Chemistry class… and let me tell you, no one aces her class. Even few actually _pass_. I, thankfully, had Mr. Hormel, who grades on a ridiculous curve. But, his passing is a feat, in and of itself. In regards to extracurriculars, yeah, he's great at that too. Senior Chairman of The Hillwood Young Philanthropist's Organization, President of the Honor Society of the Arts, and Captain of the Speech and Debate team. I say that last one with a bit of a sour tongue, because he stole this particular victory from me. I should have been president of Speech and Debate. I mean, the speech I just gave was nothing short of phenomenal and…hello? My middle name is 'Debate'! No one argues better that Helga Debate Pataki.

"Mrs. Patterson thought it was too long, anyway. And that it'd stir up unnecessary competition," I tell him.

"Stir up? Helga, this pot's been stirring for a long time, now…"

"Tell me about it," I say as we head of the front of the school. Whenever I get the chance to walk with Arnold, it never stretches any farther than the front steps of the school. We live in opposing directions (ironic, no?) from the building. Sometimes, if I have Jiu Jitsu, I'll walk to 4th street with him, and if he has volunteer work at the animal shelter, he'll walk with me towards Main. "See you tomorrow."

"Yup. Remember, Speech and Debate meets at 2:35, sharp, Ms. Vice President. See you there," he says, walking away, triumphantly. I'm not sure how you can walk away triumphantly, but I'm sure that he was.

Stupid Debate Club. Stupid Vice Presidency. Stupid crushing defeat.

* * *

Backing away from my laptop, I stretch and steal a glance at the clock near my bed. 8:36 PM. I didn't mean to spend so much time on my speech, but Arnold already had a leg up on me. It had to be perfect.

_I_ had to be perfect.

I shook my head, and ignored the underlying reason for my need to go up against Arnold on occasion after occasion, heading back downstairs to see if there was anything to eat. Miriam is usually able to throw a frozen dinner in the oven (even though she sometimes forgets to remove it), and I'm hoping that there's something left over. Ever since she returned to school to get her BA in Business Management, she's been slightly more responsible, but a lot busier as well. I guess I don't mind much; it's be weirder to have her (or Bob) for that matter, home all the time just…being there. At least when she's home, she's holed up in her own room writing dissertations and stuff. No shot outta my nose.

Once I'm back upstairs, a plate of once-frozen lasagna as my companion, I start to wonder why I'm _still _battling Arnold. I know that I'm not as smart as him; I never thought I would be. And it's obvious that people are naturally drawn to him. Winning French Honor Society president was actually a shock, seeing as he's got quite a few fans on his side. But, that's beside the point. I know I'm not as smart as Arnold, okay? I know that.

But, I'm not stupid, either. And I'm not lazy. And I'm not afraid of hard work. So, how do you let somebody see that; somebody like Arnold, who is so impressive all by himself, that the accomplishments of others pale in comparison? My final decision was that I had to _show _him. In the seventh grade, Arnold went out for treasurer of our class. I ran against him. And granted, I didn't win, but I gave him a run for his money. I made posters, coerced the principal into letting me have air time during the morning announcements, anything…just to show him that I could put effort forth. That I could try. And when he won, I shook his hand, told him it was a great race, and that we should do it again.

And we did.

Since then, nearly everything between us has been a competition. Before it was just the little things: getting to lunch faster so we could snatch up the best seats, higher scores on tests, things like that. In our freshman year of high school, when our teacher was on maternity leave, we even battled over who could give the substitute teacher more grief.

I was about to get started with my homework again, when a faded, black and white newspaper cut out crossed my eye. It was definitely old, from several years ago, when Arnold and I were still getting acclimated to battling one another in any way that we could. Our eighth grade science teacher, Mrs. B, assigns us this bizarre project. We have to grow Boston ferns for the remainder of the school year, and at the end, she measures them to see how we did. Sounds easy right? No. Apparently these plants are practically impossible to raise past a week. At first, I thought the project was just another was for the sadistic Mrs. B to torture us for the entire school year. But, and it only took me a few seconds to realize this, this could be used to my advantage…against Arnold. We must have had the same line of thinking, because when I caught his eye from across the room, he was already wearing a smirk, and I knew that the games had begun.

Fast forwarding six months, I enter Mrs. B's class to find a dead plant on almost every desk of my classmates, their sullen faces telling me how miserably they all failed. Well…not all of them. Toward the back of the room sat a bright, beautiful green fern, it's stalks covering the top of the desk an spilling onto the floor. And who should be standing by this impressive feat of horticulture? Arnold. Doi.

Anyway, at the end of class, the ecstatic Mrs. B measures our plants, and I'll just tell you right now, I didn't win. She measured the longest stalk on each of our plants, and even though my leaves were bigger and brighter (thanks to the special formula given to me by Ms. Vitello), Arnold beat me out by a quarter of an inch. That's right.

Now, I'm never one to take defeat lying down, so I asked her to measure it again. She did. Same results. Even after leaving class that day, I still argued that he cheated somehow, and the dispute was never resolved. I know this because my beautiful Boston Fern is still with me (I've named her "V", because when it started growing, it was only two twin stalks coming out of the soil, and "V" is such an evil letter. It's a letter to be feared and taken seriously. Like me.). If by some chance Arnold is paired up with me for a project, he'll come by and have Cindy Sue (his fern…could you imagine a stupider name? I get the feeling that he thinks of himself as Gipetto and thinks that his fern is a real girl…pathetic) and bring his fern along for a little friendly measuring. No matter how I ration out this plant's food, he always has be by a hair. But one day, I will prevail. I look over at V and she sways a little bit in agreement. Oh yes, we will prevail.

But, lately, the big dogs have been let out. Arnold's been stepping up his game, and it's not so easy to conquer him anymore. Well, if he's stepping up his game, then I can most certainly step up mine. There's a quote from that hot-shot soccer player, that I keep taped to the inside of my locker. I read it everyday before school starts to get me motivated: _"You can't just beat a team, you have to leave a lasting impression in their minds, so they never want to see you again." _I have a feeling that something big is happening. Something is brewing and it's going to take everything I've got just to get out alive.

This is beyond academics, or charity work or community service.

The battle lines have been drawn.

This is war.

* * *

A/N from Pointy Objects: Thanks for giving this story a chance; I know I can speak for Arnolds Love when I say that we're both really proud of this, and really excited for people to read it. It's like nothing you've ever read before. It's going to be epic, and it's being brought to you by the Forces of Arnold's Love and Pointy  
Objects!


	2. Chapter 2

No Competition

By Arnold's Love & Pointy Objects

* * *

Chapter Two Written by: Arnold's Love

Editorial Revisions by: Pointy Objects

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Chapter Two: Of French, Photos, and Ferns

"..and last, but certainly not least, I'd like to thank you, the heart  
and soul of Hillwood's French Ambassador's Honor Society, for voting me  
into this noble role. I will do all that I can to uphold the traditions that  
have made this one of the most prestigious organizations that our grand school has come to support."

Boy, could Helga go on—on and on and on. I try to stifle a yawn. She has already been giving her speech for ten minutes and I start wondering if she is ever going finish. I know what she is doing, though. Trying to give a better speech than the one I gave a few weeks ago when I became President of the Speech and Debate Team. So far, I think she is going to fail. That speech I gave was amazing.

"I cannot, however, forget to thank my vice president, Arnold. Working in  
tandem, I know that we can achieve success and help this lofty establishment grow to new and exciting heights. With me as your president, and Arnold following quietly behind me, there is nothing we can't accomplish. And, as they say, behind every great woman, is a less great, but still moderately acceptable, man. Thank you."

I stare at her. I can't help but blink. Wow. That was brutal—absolutely brutal. Helga never was one to mince words, and still today she can certainly deal a terrible blow. Well, friends, you know what this means don't you? Yep, you got it. Another battle has begun.

I lean back in my chair a moment while the F.A.H.S. breaks and goes about their ways. I try to think back on when Helga and I weren't competing in some form or another. When did this all start? I vaguely remember something about us running for Treasurer in the 7th grade, but instead of reminiscing I bring myself back to the present with a slight shake of my head as I spot the new F.A.H.S. president exiting the auditorium.

Boy, she needs to wipe that high and mighty expression off her face. Grabbing my backpack and SRL camera (which I always have handy) I run to catch up to the bouncing blond ponytail.

"I'm sure you're just loving all this new attention," I call to her as she enters the lobby.

She turns and gives me a devious smile. I roll my eyes, annoyed.

"I don't do it for the attention, Arnold. I do it because, I care," she says, dramatically placing her hand over her heart.

Whatever.

"Yeah, right. You care about the attention," I remark, stepping towards  
her, a devilish smirk filling the contours of my face. She should know by now that I know exactly what goes on in that blond brain of hers. "A riveting speech, Ms. President." I bend into a dramatic mocking bow.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Vice President. Hmm, vice?" She puts a hand to her chin, as if in thought. "An adjective, from the Latin vicis, or interchange, meaning to be next in line in importance to. Or maybe, vice in regards to the  
Latin term vitium, which is a habit regarded as a weakness or flaw in someone's character. Or maybe-"

I roll my eyes again. "I'm surprised that you didn't add that to your speech," I say, huffing for dramatics.

I stare at my life's opponent. She's got intellect and attitude—a definitely fatal combination. Everyone else knows to steer clear of her, but me? Yah, well, I like a little competition, I guess. It gives me a challenge and an escape from the boring day to day drudgery.

"Mrs. Patterson thought it was too long, anyway. And that it'd stir up  
unnecessary competition."

"Stir up? Helga, this pot's been stirring for a long time, now…" I can't help but smile remembering the years and years of endless competition between us.

"Tell me about it," she remarks as we near the front of the school.

We live on opposite sides of the school, so I know this is the end of our chat and walk together. It's not my day to volunteer at the animal shelter, and if I am remembering correctly, she doesn't have Jiu Jitsu today either.

She pauses fleetingly—so quickly it's almost not a pause at all. The untrained eye wouldn't have caught, but remember I'm used to Helga. She does this often. I've yet to figure out her reasoning—though I have my suspicions.

"See you tomorrow," she says finally.

"Yup. Remember, Speech and Debate meets at 2:35, sharp, Ms. Vice President. See you there," I say with a little bit of attitude to remind her that I own that group. Just to make sure she catches my drift I throw a little victorious saunter into the works as I walk away.

* * *

On my way home on Wednesdays I always drop off my most recent freelance work to the local newspaper. It's a way to earn a little extra money. I also work as a Trig tutor in the math lab on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and then most weekends I work at the local zoo. So between all these odd jobs I make enough money to buy gas and take the occasional girl on a date.

The Hillwood Times has a section for freelance photographers and they pay you a fair amount for each picture that they choose to post. Today I was turning in a shot of Helga giving her speech looking a little like Hitler, banging on the podium. The lighting in that one works perfect for the whole Helga as Hitler theme. That's the best of the four I'm turning in. Probably the one they will choose. The other three are some random shots around town, nothing too special.

Once home I look in the fridge for a bite to eat even though dinner is only in a few hours. I'm a growing boy, okay? I need my energy. Sorting through the cupboards I finally find a deliciously salty peanut butter granola bar and grabbing my backpack I head up the stairs to study and do homework.

Yah, I guess you could say my life is boring. I like academic work though. That's why I have the highest grades in my classes, and that's why Helga likes to _attempt_ to beat me. (Yes, please emphasize the word "_attempt_".) It's in her nature to be competitive. In some form or fashion it is her life goal to be the best. And lately it seems if all else failed, as long as she was better than me she'd feel successful. I'd like to see the day that she conquers me. I'm pretty sure that will never happen.

Once in my room I flip on the light and toss my book bag on the bed. Immediately I head for the little spray bottle I keep on my desk. It's a misty day for Cindy-Sue.

Cindy-Sue? Oh, she's my glorious Boston fern that I've had since eighth grade. Yah, I know Boston fern? Kind of random, I'll admit. But there's a story behind that one.

It's eighth grade, right? Helga and I have this competitive streak going and our teacher, Mrs. Buzzard announces our new botanist project. We will be given a Boston fern (which rumor has it is hard for even the person with the greenest thumb to grow) and for the rest of the year we are to take care of it.

Almost on cue I send Helga a little smirk across the room and she gives me a little raise of the eyebrow and shake of her head. It's on.

Well, to make a long story short, when almost everyone in the class' plants died, Helga's and mine thrived and grew. I had found the key to keeping these Boston ferns alive and apparently so had Helga. By the end of the year we each took the longest frond and measured it. And then we measured the diameter. Lets just say I won and Helga couldn't accept that, so we both still have our ferns and we occasionally get together to measure them. Until Helga wins, I doubt this competition will ever die.

This is only just the surface of our insane rivalry. I had never seen Helga as a formidable opponent until 7th grade when we both ran for class Treasurer. I won, of course, but I'll admit it…she gave me a good run for my money. And so it has been ever since. This newest victory of hers—President of the French Honor Society—has left me a little venomous, I'll admit. She is definitely stepping up her game…which means I definitely need to step up mine. That's okay, I thrive on competition…so in that regard…I guess I'm a lot like Helga.

I twiddle my pen between my fingers and stare down at my calculus homework. For some reason I can't concentrate. Something is about to go down. Something really big, which may even be beyond me.

Wait—beyond me? Did I really just say that? Ha! Ya, right. Nothing is beyond me. I can beat Helga at anything she throws at me…just you wait and see.

Game.

Set.

Match.

* * *

Author's Note from Arnold's Love: Well, we are certainly excited for this and hope you are all joining us in that regard! Hope you enjoyed Arnold's voice in this, I'm kind of fond of his little spicy attitudeness...anyway, review away and tell us if you see this as being as fantastic we think!


	3. Chapter 3

No Competition

By Arnold's Love & Pointy Objects

* * *

Chapter One Written by: Pointy Objects

Editorial Revisions by: Arnold's Love

* * *

Chapter Three:

Even when I'm not trying, I'm still the best. Case in point: I'm on my way to a meeting for the Speech and Debate team—something that would otherwise completely infuriate me, seeing as I'm serving as Arnold's subordinate—but, just look at me: smile on my face, bounce in my step, and a perfectly aced test in my hand. Life is good.

It's probably no surprise that the test I aced (with a 109 percent…gotta love that extra credit, right?) is from my English class. It's always been my best subject, and when the offer came to take this English class, in particular, two things motivated me to go for it without restraint. The first perk to taking Advanced Placement Honors English Language and Literature Composition was the fact that it offered some serious college credit. Normally, the class was only offered to seniors, but after a lengthy debate with my administrators, and a near perfect score on the exams necessary to take the class, I became South Hillwood's first junior to be admitted to a senior English class of this caliber (Phoebe already took the Advanced Blah Blah Blah Science class award…).

My second motivating factor was…you guessed it, Arnold. Like I said, this guy was smart, and had a wide range of knowledge. He was already taking Trigonometry (the word alone gives me a headache; don't ask me to take the class) and tutors Calc after school. So I surmised that he was probably one of those Math/Science nerds, and I could dominate the English Language. Everyone has their own 'thing', right? Arnold had his, and this was mine. At the same time, I never missed out on an opportunity to remind him of my genius. Like, today. Scoring a 109 on a test is kind of epic in my book, and who better to share my success with than my honorable SD president?

Fortunately and unfortunately, I slip into the meeting a few seconds before it starts. The meetings are held in one of the older, abandoned classrooms of the East wing; it smells faintly of old books and mold, but after some cleaning, it wasn't completely horrible. There was one long, circular desk in the middle of the class room, and mis-matched computer chairs surrounding it for all the members. Of course, Arnold always gets the big, comfortable, un-moldy looking chair because he was the President, while the rest of us have to fight for one that at least has armrests. Aside from the Presidential chair, there is only one left, by the time I entered; it's grey, and kind of broken looking, placed two chairs down from Arnold's. Depositing my books underneath my chair, I take my seat, and watch as Arnold saunters over to his seat, looking smug and self important. The jerk.

"Good afternoon, the meeting of the South Hillwood Speech and Debate Team will now come to order," Arnold announces, capturing everyone's attention. I roll my eyes at his ability to do so. I may want to beat him in everything, but crimeny, I still loved the boy. One of the sophomore officers begins reading off a ridiculously long list of announcements that are so boring and tedious that I nearly fall asleep. I pretend to be taking notes, but I'm just doodling in my English notebook, until the page is full. Turning to a fresh sheet, I am met with an idea. Tearing the corner off of the clean sheet of paper, I hurriedly write out a note:

_Dear__Prez,__can__you__please__liven__up__this__meeting?_ after which I fold it neatly and lean back in my chair. Looking over at Arnold from behind my classmates' head, I wait for the perfect moment to throw it at him. Once he looks up from his own doodle of a house, I toss the note, and nearly throw my fist into the air, in victory, as it lands right in front of him. Score one for me! Sitting back up, I don't watch as he reads the note. In fact, I'm not even sure if he has bothered to open it, until something hits my ear and bounces off of my shoulder into my lap. Furrowing my brow and looking at Arnold, I catch his little smirk as he holds up one finger on each hand and mouths, _score:__1__to__1._

_Why don't you do something VICE Prez?_

I can't help but notice the word 'VICE' in big, capital letters. Idiot.

_I mean it. I'm so bored, I think I may just fall asleep._

This one lands on his paper again, and I'm almost sure that someone saw it. Scanning the table I see a few bored faces, while some people actually seem interested in what this little nerd has to say. Poor, unfortunate souls.

_Don__'__t__do__it,__Blondie;__when__you__wake__up__…__your__forehead__will__bear__that__secret__you__told__me__last__year__in__history__…_I look up at him menacingly, and see that he was actually shaking a permanent marker in my direction. He wouldn't…

Smiling to myself, I quickly write out my reply. _If__nothing__else__I__must__commend__you__on__your__correct__use__of__a__semi-colon.__Did__I__mention?__I__got__a__109__on__my__APHELLC__test,__today.__Take__that._

Again, I toss my note and avoid looking at Arnold by counting up the notes we've accumulated. I contemplate saving them, but what for? This is really, just another battle for us. I am not usually in the habit of documenting them. Another piece of paper lands in my lap, and I hurry to read his response. When I open it, however, I am far from excited.

_sin(2u) = sin(u + u) = s(u)+cos(u).sin(u) = s(u)Take that._

I look, bewildered, at the tiny slip of paper and give a little angry huff. He must have heard me because I hear a slight chuckle coming from his direction now. Just as I am about to write something back (even though nothing truly combative really is coming to mind) one of the SD members addresses Arnold, who was still looking at me, arrogantly.

"Mr. President?" the little poindexter asks, timidly, as if he were up against some dark, evil being. Come on, people! It's just Arnold! He lives with his grandparents! He used to wear a skirt! What's with the 'Mister'?

Arnold, who has just been caught unawares, turns to face—I think his name is Brian or something forgettable like that—and stammers a bit to regain his composure. "Um…yes?" he asks, as if he has been paying attention the entire meeting. Whilst Brian asks him some question regarding the number of new applicants to the team, I quickly write out one final note and aim it at Arnold. As expected, it lands on the left side of his head, nestled neatly in his pillowy-soft tufts of hair.

Without thinking, I let out a loud cry of laughter, throwing my head back and open-hand smacking the table. This earns me a few concerned looks from my peers. Unlike Arnold, however, I know how to come back without looking like a stuttering fool. "Four," I say, straightening my back and looking around the room. "We have four new applicants: a freshman, a sophomore and two juniors, three of whom have competed in county-wide speech competitions." I tell them, seriously, while still smiling.

"Th-thank you, Miss Vice President," Brian says, taking his seat again.

"Yes, thank you, Miss _Vice_President," Arnold states, from my side. I ignore the haughty way he emphasizes "vice".

He calls the meeting to a close not long after that. I'm used to it by now, and I'm certain that the look of self-satisfaction on his face will be gone once he finds that little note in his hair.

The last one is always a killer.

* * *

"Hey, Gino. I'm taking a 45."

I look behind me as I untie my apron and watch as Gino nods and finishes his pastrami. I remind myself that next time Gino makes a run to the deli, to pick one up for me, even though I spend most of my shift eating anyway. When you work where I work, it's kind of obvious that you're not just in it for the cultural experience.

To be honest, when I first walked into 'The Pearl', I was not looking for a job. I was looking for a fight. Once again, some schmuck was looking to buy a piece of Hillwood property that "technically" belonged to the inhabitants of the city, for the sole purpose of making a dollar. Arnold was the first to react; from the experience with my dad so many years ago, over his plans to destroy Mighty Pete, I was certain that he could single handedly save Gerald Field as well. Even so, we still made this one a competition, despite the fact that we had to work in tandem at some point. Regardless of our efforts, after sixteen months of grueling protests from city occupants and way too much paperwork, neither of us came out the victor. Arnold lost. I lost. Gerald Field _was_lost.

So, the evening of their grand opening, when I knew there would be the highest concentration of disloyal, unfaithful, _Gerald__Field-forgetting_customers, I entered, trying not to fall in love with the place. The outside was plain enough; no elaborate outdoor eating areas, or fake palm trees or flashy lights. It looked like a regular, run of the mill coffee house. The inside however, was, even in my former state of anger, pretty cool. Dark wood paneling lining all the walls, and dim overhead lighting, made the entire shop seem very homey and cozy. To my right was "the bar", as the overhead sign read, where they served a wide selection of coffee-drinks and food items. Regardless of how nicely furnished the inside was, I came with a mission. And when I spotted the stage in the back of the café, I knew what I had to do.

Making a beeline for the stage, I pushed aside a few guitar-wielding hopefuls and snatched the microphone from its stand angrily.

"Excuse me! I have a little announcement to make…" and from there, I launched into a lengthy, well-written attack on the man (whom I had yet to meet or speak to) and corporation that dared to sully the purity and childhood innocence that Gerald Field represented. And when I finished and saw the shocked faces of the crowd before me, I couldn't wait to tell Arnold what I accomplished. Thanks to me, everyone knew what this field really meant to me and anyone else in this neighborhood. If things worked out the way I wanted them, this establishment would be bulldozed by Friday.

Instead of a round of applause and the sudden and merciless destruction of this building via the hands of my neighbors, I'm met with…snapping? Are people snapping their fingers at me? What _is_this place?

I must have looked thoroughly confused up there, because out of nowhere steps a dark haired, lanky guy in black cowboy boots and dark rimmed glasses. I took one look at him and had to resist the urge to beat him over the head with the microphone stand. Who did he think he was, standing there all cool and older and attractive looking? Before I could stab him in the chest with my index finger, he invited me to have a seat and "chat."

Against my better judgment, I took him up on his iced chai-tea latte offer and joined him in a rear facing window. And as he began telling his story, I found myself actually feeling sorry for the guy—because once upon a time, the vacant lot wasn't Gerald Field. And even before that it wasn't just a vacant lot. Once upon a time, the vacant lot wasn't even _vacant_.

"Thirteen years ago, when I was too young to remember, there was a house on Vine Street that served residence to a single mother and her three kids. She worked many odd jobs, barely keeping her household afloat, much of the time.

"My mom was the hardest working woman you'd ever meet. We were never rich…sometimes we were too poor to even eat dinner. But, we were happy. She always made sure of that.

"When I was seventeen, my mom's health started to fail. She was working three jobs, at the time, and even though I was making a little money here and there. She still did the bulk of the work around the house. I didn't know, until much later that she had a bad heart, and never sought medical help for it, because she knew we couldn't afford it. She literally gave up everything for us.

"My mom…died. Four weeks shy of my 18th birthday."

Before I could so much as gasp at his revelation he continued. I figured he wouldn't have wanted to hear my shocked "I'm sorry." anyway. I know _I_ didn't want to hear it when my grandmother died two years ago.

"She left the house and all her assets to us. Everything was fine, except, seeing as I wasn't a legal adult. I couldn't take ownership of the house. The state took the house and sold it in the four weeks it took for me to turn eighteen. For my birthday that year, I got a vacant lot and the neighborhood kids got a place to play," he said, in a solemn voice, but not bitterly.

I must have had the look of deep thought on my face, because I heard my name a few moments later; Dan trying to get my attention. "Yeah?" I asked.

"Hey," he said, in a calming way. "Don't look so worried. It was a long time ago, and I'm not mad. Plus, I have a feeling that she'd be proud of this place."

I looked around again, noting the word carved letter "P" over every table. I remembered the name of the place when I first walked-stormed-in. 'The Pearl'. I didn't get the reference at first, but now it was a little clearer.

"Was your mom's name Pearl?" I asked, finding myself smiling a little bit.

"Yup." Dan answered, smiling back. I could barely believe that this was the same man that I was going to tear in half not half an hour ago. "So…"

"So, yeah. Sorry about saying all that stuff. On your stage." Geez, talk about humiliation. Here the poor guy dedicated a coffee house to his mom and I desecrated her sacred stage.

"It's all good. You obviously have a way with words. I have a feeling that if I let you go on, you'd still be up there." he joked. I smiled nervously as he went on. "Just a question, how do you feel about coffee?" he asked.

"Pfft." I said, rolling my eyes. "Are you kidding? If you cut me right now, I'd bleed Ethiopian Yirgacheffe." I told him.

"Cool. Ever use an espresso machine?"

"Doi. My mom doesn't leave the house without one, so I usually wake up and make one for her and a couple for myself."

Dan was quiet for a few minutes, and I started getting worried. I just hoped he wouldn't start crying. I was never very good with tears. Especially from guys. Or girls, for that matter. Human beings in general actually. I'm just really, really bad with tears.

"Let me know if this sounds too forward. I mean, you obviously like coffee…and it's no secret that you're a writer…so I was wondering…"

"Yeah?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.

"How would you like a job?"

* * *

As I finish shoving a blueberry pastry, followed by a big gulp of my iced caramel latte, down my throat, I hear the distinctive jingle that came from the bell over the door. Turning to see who was entering, a huge grin erupts on my face when I see that slightly peeved, football head entering the door. I stand, preparing my self for his approach, knowing that by now he has to have found that note. It was a couple hours ago; so long ago that I can barely remember what I've written.

"What's up, Football-Face? Always a pleasure…" I drawl.

"Very funny, Helga. I happened to get your last little message. Very clever. Aren't we a little old for childish insults?"

"Maybe _you_are," I say back, looking bored. "But, really, why are you here? Homes and places of employment are neutral zones."

"Are you kidding? I don't remember making any such rules or agreements. There are _no_neutral zones," he bit back. I tried not to stare at his stupid gorgeous mouth while he spoke. "Nice little place," he says, as if he's never been here before.

"Yeah, whatever. Cut to the chase. Go ahead and try to one up me, only to fail abysmally, and go home with your tail between your legs. You know, like always."

Arnold seems to look around the restaurant for a few minutes, as if there is some domestic chore he could use against me. What? Were we going to have a napkin folding race, or something?

"What's this?" Arnold asks, snatching a bright green flyer from under the salt and pepper shakers on a nearby table. "Open Mike Night?"

"Yeah, " I begin sarcastically. "It's where people randomly go up to a _mike_and _open_their mouths. At _night_. Hence the name. Duh."

Arnold smiles devilishly, and I get the feeling that I walked right into a trap. "Okay, Helga. I dare you. To Open Mike Night."

I look at him blank-faced. Arnold wants to challenge me to Open Mike Night? What would he possibly do on that stage? What would I do?

Wait a sec…what am I talking about? I'm a natural wordsmith. Words are my life. Plus, I have a thick arsenal of poems locked away in my brain. If worse comes to worse, I could just pull something out of my ear to recite. Literally. What would Arnold do up there? Recite the Quadratic Formula to the tune of a ukelele?

This round is already won.

"Hey, Dan." I call without breaking my gaze with Arnold. Dan emerges from the back office, looking excited, for some reason unknown to me. "Arnold here, would like to challenge me to an Open Mike Night showdown. Mind putting us on the list back-to-back?"

Dan looked surprised, but I gave him a look that said not to worry, so he straightened up his face and nodded.

"What a minute!" Arnold says, loudly, breaking the telepathic conversation I was having with Dan. "You're her _boss_. And Helga's a _writer_. How do I know she won't just use something she's written and stored in her brain?"

Crap. Stupid Football-headed genius.

"Don't worry. I've heard and read almost everything Helga's written in the past few months. If I hear anything familiar, you win by default."

I want to punch Dan _and_Arnold in the face, but I just take another sip of my latte (which was tasting kind of bitter all of a sudden), and turn back to Arnold. "Alright, you're on. Prepare to go down crying."

Arnold reaches over and before I recognize what he was doing, takes my drink from my hand and a long sip from the straw of my iced latte. My mouth drops open and I stare at him until he placed it on the table.

"I never go down. And if, by some strange shift in the universe, I do, I go down swinging." he says, walking away

If anything, I should be writing something amazing, with which to cream Arnold, but all I can think of, as I walk away, draining my latte, is that I am, at present, kissing Arnold by proxy.


End file.
